“Tell us a bedtime story, Uncle Mat,” said Sabine.

“Yes, a bedtime story,” echoed her brother Sean.

“Aren’t you too old for bedtime stories?” Mat asked.

“Oh no,” Sean said. “You can never be too old for bedtime stories.”

“And we’ll be 16 next July,” put in Sabine.

“Okay, okay, you little bunnies,” Mat agreed. “But only a very short one, or your mother will have my hide.”

This is the story Mat told.

Once upon a time in a distant land lived a plump little frog named Boris. “I’m not an ordinary frog, oh no,” Boris told his playmates at the pond. “I was cursed by an evil witch. In reality I’m a handsome prince.”

“Yeah, right,” scoffed Boris’s friends.

“It’s true,” Boris insisted. “If my lips should kiss those of a princess, I’ll be turned back into a prince again.”

Boris’s buddies had a good chuckle.

“You’ll see, and then the laugh will be on you,” Boris said.

“Yeah, well, it’s not likely any princess is going to visit our meager swamp,” the other frogs replied. “So I guess that last laugh will be a long time coming. Hahaha. Hahaha.”

Boris frowned. “If the princess won’t come to me, I’ll go to her.” And with that, Boris set off.

He traveled wide and far, crossing mountains and seas, and eventually he came to a kingdom nearly on the other side of the map. It was a beautiful kingdom, but it seemed to be deserted. Not a soul was about. Boris could not help notice, however, that the air was thick with the scent of sex, and through the walls of the buildings, Boris could hear moaning and keening and the creak of bedsprings. Everyone in the kingdom was making love. So ardent was the passion that the very ground trembled, and Boris had a hard time walking a straight line. But off on a hilltop, Boris spied some towers, and so he made his way towards the castle, hoping to find his princess.

As he neared the castle, Boris noted that the sex scent grew even stronger, a mix of fresh sea and warm sun, honey-clover and wild thistle. And the moans grew more insistent, cries of impossible yearning.

The gate was open, so Boris hopped into the courtyard.

No one was about. The air shimmered with the sounds and scents of sex. “What a strange place,” Boris said to himself. He crossed the courtyard, intending to investigate the central tower, for it seemed the most beguiling scent and song issued from there. He was almost to the tower wall when a little mouse scurried past. Half of him was erection. His phallus jutted out in front, making it difficult to run.

“Stop!” Boris demanded. “Stop and tell me what’s going on.”

“I haven’t time,” squeaked the little mouse. “My maiden awaits.” And with that the mouse darted into a crack under the stones, but he couldn’t quite squeeze all the way in, snagged as he was by his erection.

“Oh, help me, help me,” the mouse implored.

“Not until you tell me what this is all about.”

“It’s all about Princess Clitoris,” the mouse explained. “Her father, afraid of a witch’s curse, imprisoned her in the tower. There all she does day and night is masturbate. But the witch has somehow managed to curse her anyway. No matter how hard or light, how fast or slow, how deep or shallow she touches herself, she can’t come. And we suffer along with her. Our erections won’t subside. Our women are mad with want. But no matter how much we fuck, we can’t come. Now help me get through this crack before I yank my cock off or bring the whole tower tumbling down.”